Doc Savage: Achilles and the Indestructible Men
by Joseph Perch
Summary: Doc Savage and his crew are pitted against a mythological Grecian hero and his ancient guard of indestructible men.
1. Johnny Gets Hijacked

_The intent of the writer (that's me) is to provide a new chapter about once a week._

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><p>Chapter 1 - <strong>Johnny Gets Hijacked<strong>

"What is your progress, Mr. Littlejohn? Have you found the helmet?"

William Harper Littlejohn studied the face of Dalan, the government liaison with Turkey. The man wasn't casually inquiring about the progress of the dig, he was anxious. Was the Turkish government putting pressure on him? That didn't make any sense. Johnny's university had made a deal with Turkey to buy the helmet, if found, for the university's museum. Whatever was going on, there was fear behind Dalan's words.

"One cannot engender the armored chapeau to coalesce from ethereal vapors."

Dalan's brow furrowed. "I'm … how … I'm sorry, what?"

Johnny used a fold of his shirt to clean his monocle, working cloth and glass between his fingers, studying Dalan's face. The man was scared. He decided to be lenient with his words. "I can't just make it appear. It could be weeks, months—"

"Sir! Sir!" One of his digging crew came running into his tent, out of breath. "We found it!"

"Or," said Johnny, bemused, "seconds."

The site was along a northwesterly curve of Turkey that overlooked the azure blue of the Marmara Sea, which connected the Black Sea with the Aegean. Sunlight danced along the surface of the water. A warm salty breeze rustled Johnny's brown hair as he walked down steps dug into the side of a steep hill. Near the bottom of the hill, only a few hundred yards from the sea, was an excavation of sandy dirt about twenty yards square. Small wooden posts strung with twine marked the various small parcels that Johnny was interested in exploring. As he approached a knot of excited diggers, they parted for him. He towered over them, a foot taller than the next tallest man, but twice as thin as the smallest of them.

"What have we got?" asked Johnny in near-perfect Turkish.

The crew leader of the dig team grinned up at him and knelt, careful not to let his knees touch the ground, which swarmed with ants. He used a small brush to point to an exposed corner of bronze that stuck up from the dirt. Johnny whistled softly.

"I'll be superamalgamated," he said, kneeling next to his crew boss. He was too astonished to speak Turkish, "The metal looks polished. Where is the deleterious effects of the substrata?" The bronze reflected the sun so brightly that Johnny had to crab walk into a position that didn't blind him. Using the magnifying lens of his monocle, he bent closer to study the find.

"Beautiful," was all he said a moment before he jumped back, startling his workers, who scattered. He slapped at his lower legs and stamped them. "What's with the damn ants?" he yelled, backing away from the surging colony of black insects.

The crew boss shrugged, having not moved from his squatting position. Johnny realized that the man must be getting eaten alive by the biting little monsters. "Get out of there and wash up in the sea."

The man looked grateful as he scrambled to his feet and ran to jump in the water to wash the ants from him. Surely, even the sting of the salt in the tiny wounds would be preferable to the constant biting. Johnny stepped closer to the bit of bronze, keeping an eye on the undulating mass of black ants. It was a huge colony. He watched them for several moments, trying to isolate where they were coming from. With a sinking heart he found the opening to the colony; it was right on top of the bronze. He risked being bitten again and knelt in front of the small bit of metal, taking a brush from the breast pocket of his shirt.

He made careful gestures with the brush, just touching the dirt around the exposed piece of metal. The ants were everywhere. "Unfortunately," he said, "we'll have to wait until tonight to continue this dig. The ants should be dormant until the morning," he said in Turkish. He kept brushing despite the number of ants climbing up his boots and then back down inside of them. They began to bite, but he hardly noticed as he brushed some more, exposing a tiny bit more of the metal. It was an extraordinary piece. Was it the helmet? An odd bit of jewelry? He brushed away more dirt. A design was beginning to take shape in the metal, revealing itself a tiny brushstroke of dirt at a time. The hint of the shape of the design could be Grecian. Yes, it definitely could be. He absently slapped at his neck, leaning forward and holding his monocle in his other hand to get a better look. He hated the thought of waiting until nightfall, it was only late morning now. So much wasted time with this astonishing piece of metal taunting him. He sighed. He would have to wait, he thought as he scratched at his arm. So much wasted—

He jumped back again, but not because of the ants. The earth around the piece of metal simply fell away, as if melting in the Mediterranean sun, and a gorgeous helmet, without a doubt of ancient Greek design, tumbled out, looking as pristine as it must have looked the day it was forged.

"Beautiful," said Johnny quietly. He took out a clean handkerchief from the back pocket of his khakis and used it to pick up the helmet, so he wouldn't mar its perfect surface. There was an inscription etched into the metal. He puzzled over it, all else forgotten, including the numerous bites he was receiving from the ants, as he translated it in his head.

"Is that it?" said Dalan.

Johnny looked up the hill in annoyance at the interruption. He was tempted not to answer the man, but the fear and near-panic in the man's eyes quieted his annoyance. After a moment he nodded and said, "I think it just might be the helmet we're looking for."

The relief on Dalan's face was striking and the gun that appeared in his hand was just as striking. "Please forgive me, but I must ask you to give me the helmet."

Johnny puzzled over this. "What's going on, Dalan? My university has a deal with your government."

Dalan nodded. "Unfortunately, I have had to make another deal."

A man stepped up to Dalan and Johnny's gut twisted. It was Wilfred Blott, a fellow archaeologist with few scruples. Blott smiled and motioned to someone behind him. A man that Johnny didn't know appeared above and scampered down the steps. He reached the same level as Johnny, though he was much shorter than him.

"Give him the helmet, Dr. Littlejohn."

The only gun he saw was Dalan's and if he moved quickly enough he doubted Dalan's shaking hand could aim with any accuracy.

"Don't get cute, Littlejohn," called down Blott, as though reading his mind. A half dozen men approached the rim above, holding rifles. "Don't make me get blood on my helmet."

Johnny seethed with anger as he handed over the beautiful piece of antiquity. Blott's lackey took it in his bare hands, making Johnny wince. The man ran back up the steps to Blott, who took it from him. Blott looked it over carefully. "Yes. Yes," he said. "Definitely Greek. What does this inscription say?" said Blott, looking down at Johnny.

Johnny shook his head, "I didn't have time to translate it."

Blott didn't look like he believed him, but he shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I'll know soon enough if it's the real deal."

Blott turned to Dalan. "Now kill him."

Dalan looked stricken. "But … but you have the helmet. There is no need—"

"Kill him," said Blott coldly, "or lose your family."

Dalan aimed the pistol at Johnny.


	2. Worried About a Friend

Chapter 2 - **Worried About a Friend**

Vincenzo Giordano stood in the lobby of the Empire State Building with absolutely no idea what to do. He ran his felt hat through his hands endlessly as he stared at the directory on the wall. His English wasn't very good, but he had made a point of learning to identify "Savage" without difficulty. The problem was that with so many floors, it was taking an inordinate amount of time to sift through all the names. And none of them appeared to be "Savage." He started on the list for the third time when he noticed a tall, bulky man standing somewhat next to him. Maybe trying to find Dottore Savage wasn't such a good idea. The strong-looking man, Vincenzo realized the man's hands were huge, almost the size of boxing gloves, seemed to be looking at him more than at the directory in front of them.

Too anxious to continue, he turned, bowed slightly, "Scusi," and began to head towards the front doors.

"You lookin' for Doc Savage?"

Vincenzo froze, terrified to turn back around. How had this man known this? Was he an enemy of Dottore Savage? Was he la polizia? Vincenzo started walking again, continuing towards the front doors.

"It's okay," said the intimidating man, his voice softening. "I can help you. I'm an associate of Doc's. My name's Renny."

Vincenzo breathed a sigh of relief and turned, still kneading his hat between his hands. "Ah, I hear of you," he said, embarrassed by how poorly he spoke English. "Signore Renwick. Si?"

Renny smiled down at him. "Si. Can I ask why you wanna see Doc?"

"It is no for me. Mi amico. Um. Friend. Si?"

Renny nodded, but looked doubtful. He thinks this is really about me, thought Vincenzo. "Friend lives … um … streets. Sleeps—" he finally turned and pointed outside.

"In the street?"

"Si. He no job. Nice man. Nice man. Food I hand. Times."

"Sometimes you give him food. Got it. Sorry to rush you, sir, but maybe you could just tell me why you think your friend needs Doc's help? Doc owns several soup kitchens around the city, your friend can find food any time he wants. Or get a job with one of Doc's day labor joints."

Vincenzo nodded. Yes, he must get to the point. This man was busy, as was Dottore Savage. "Friend gets—" he huffed in frustration at not knowing the words. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little pen knife. Without opening the blade he made thrusting motions.

Renny's impatience turned to concern. "He was stabbed." Suddenly Renny looked up, towards the front doors. "Is he here? Hurt outside?"

This took Vincenzo a moment to process, as he followed Renny's gaze. Then he shook his head. "No, he good. E il problema. He," Vincenzo made more stabbing motions, "but he no hurt." Vincenzo patted his side and shook his head. "No … um … no," he made a motion with his hands to show something coming out of his side, "hurt. No hurt. I look. Niente."

Renny looked confused. "He was stabbed, but he wasn't hurt?"

Vincenzo made more motions with his hands, trying to get Renny to understand that it was blood he was trying to show.

"No blood?"

Vincenzo nodded vigorously. "Si! No blood!"

"Maybe he wasn't really stabbed."

Vincenzo shook his head. "Knife." He held his index fingers about six inches apart. "Stab. I see."

He could tell that Renny doubted him. Thought he hadn't really seen what he had seen. The big man seemed to be making up his mind about him. With relief he saw Renny nod.

"Okay. Let's go up and see Doc."

When Doc Savage first entered the room that Renny had brought him to, Vincenzo did not think he was as tall or large as he had heard. His skin, however, was an amazing bronze hue, almost like a statue, and his golden eyes were mesmerizing. When he walked, he reminded Vincenzo of a cat, graceful and poised. But as he approached Renny and himself, he realized this man of bronze was a giant. He was taller than Renny and even though he was dressed in a casual blue evening suit, Vincenzo sensed that he was more powerful than his large imposing friend, but unlike Renny's obvious large frame, Doc Savage's body was so perfectly proportional, that if he wasn't standing next to another person, it would be difficult to tell how big he truly was.

"How can I help you, sir?" he said, his voice a pleasing baritone.

Looking into that stoic handsome face, Vincenzo forgot to be nervous. The presence and charisma of this man had calmed him, made him feel immediately that this was someone he could trust. Someone who could, and would, help him. He was so caught up in the wake of this man that he even forgot to speak English.

"I'm Vincenzo Giordano," he said in Italian. "I need to talk to you about a friend of mine who I saw stabbed with a large knife. Yet, he did not bleed. He was not—" Vincenzo realized he was speaking Italian. He had difficulty getting his brain to switch gears back to his poor English.

Doc Savage said, "Please continue," with an accent from Southern Italy.

Vincenzo's eyes went wide. "You're Italian!"

The bronze man shook his head with ever so slight of a smile. Vincenzo didn't know why, but he suspected this man rarely showed emotion. "I'm afraid not. But I do know the language fairly well."

"Fairly well? I would have sworn you were from Napoli."

"Thank you. But please continue with the story about your friend."

Vincenzo nodded, his mind reeling. "Yes. My friend without a name."

"Where did this happen?"

Vincenzo gathered himself, looking down at his rumpled green felt hat. "It was on the outskirts of Little Italy, in Harlem. Around 96th Street. I work in a butcher shop there. I was bringing out the bits and pieces of various smoked meats that I had trimmed during the day, along with a day-old loaf of bread. When I can, I feed this man whose name I do not even know. He does not even know it."

"You're sure he didn't know his name?" asked Doc Savage.

Vincenzo realized that Renny must not know Italian, for he looked bored and went and sat behind a large, ornate table with an intricate Oriental design inlaid in its top, picking up a newspaper and thumbing through it. Vincenzo nodded to the bronze man. "I believe so. He said he could not remember his name and he appeared to be quite upset that he could not. I asked if I could examine his head and I found no evidence of trauma."

Was that a look of surprise on the bronze man's face? It was hard to tell, his expression did not change much, but Vincenzo thought he saw it there for a brief moment.

"You're a doctor," he said.

Vincenzo nodded. "I was a doctor, back in Perugia. Here, I work for a butcher."

"Why would you leave Italy?"

Vincenzo felt his heart turn cold. "Mussolini. He is a despicable man. I refused to join his Fascist party. The party let me know I could no longer practice medicine. So I came here. I have some family up in Harlem. I haven't been here very long, but when I sought to let my neighbors know that I was a doctor, some men who are with the black hand let me know that I would have to pay them to open a practice of any kind, even if I was only trading my medical advice for food and other goods. I refused. Seems I left one evil party in Italy only to find another one here in America."

Doc Savage nodded, but didn't say anything. Of course, this man knew all about both kinds of evil if even a tenth of the stories Vincenzo had heard were true. He continued. "So this happened less than a week ago. I had wrapped up the scraps in paper, grabbed the loaf of bread, and went outside to look for him. It was dark by this time. Cold. I can never get warm in his country," said Vincenzo with a smile. "My friend usually hangs out at a small, local park. I don't know what he does all day. When I first met him he was doing day labor. But lately, the last week or two, he hasn't worked much. He's been very agitated. He told me that something was coming. He didn't know what, but it made him upset, but not unhappy, as though he looked forward to whatever it was. I'm afraid my friend has a mental disorder, but I am not a psychiatrist.

"I go to the park, hoping to find him, but a group of young hoodlums find me instead. I've seen these young men around the neighborhood doing stupid things in hopes of impressing the black handers. There were three of them that night." Vincenzo felt himself shudder. He hated the fear that he felt even then. "They ask what I have. I ignore them and keep walking, hoping to find some shop that's still open that I can slip into. But everything's closed. So these young men, kids, really, get more brazen. One shoves me in the back, asking why I'm ignoring them. Another one makes a grab for the bread, but I don't let them have it. That's when one of them takes out a metal bar, about a foot long. Now I'm really scared, but for some reason I just wouldn't hand over the meat or the bread. I couldn't let myself bow to them. So this young man, this child, raises the metal bar to strike me. I must admit I closed my eyes and looked away, but instead of being struck, I hear him yelp. I open my eyes, and there's my friend! He has the boy's wrist in his grip and my friend must be quite strong, for the boy was in obvious pain. He dropped the metal bar and my friend lets go of him. One of the other kids comes in swinging his fists, and my friend blocks the blows with hardly any effort and then he makes a move I've never seen before," Vincenzo tries to imitate it with his hands, but he knows he hasn't come close to what he actually saw. "Anyway, he moves his hands and I hear a slap and then a thud and the boy is on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Then the third youth, he is the one with the knife. As my friend turns towards him, the boy stabs him with this large kitchen knife, right here," said Vincenzo, pointing to his side, "through the costal cartilage connecting the … oh, I'm sorry, the costal cartilage is—"

There was that slight smile again. "I know what it is."

Vincenzo smiled broadly. "Of course, you are Doctor Savage. The blade went in deep. Deep enough that it was ripped from the boy's hand when my friend turned and hit the boy so hard, he flew backwards into the wall of the building behind him, hitting his head quite hard. Then my friend looked down at the blade and simply pulled it from his body. Well, I insisted on examining the wound, but there was no wound. I just stood there, stunned. My friend eased the bread from my arms and started to eat it. Once I gathered my wits, I tended to the injured youth. I'm afraid the boy with the knife was concussed." Vincenzo paused and looked squarely in the golden eyes of Doc Savage. "What kind of man can be stabbed, but not injured?"

The bronze man nodded. "That is an excellent question."


	3. Johnny Saves the Day

Chapter 3

Johnny Saves the Day

Dalan's hand shook terribly as he tried to aim the pistol. From Johnny's estimation, the man was aiming somewhere out to sea. He also held the gun wrong and the recoil would probably cause the gun to fly out of his hands altogether. Johnny doubted that the man had ever fired a gun before.

Blott looked up from the helmet and sighed in disgust. "For crying out loud. Memluk, kill Dalan and then kill the tall man below."

Dalan's face lost all of its color. "What?"

Memluk raised his rifle at the same time Dalan leapt at him. The rifle went off. Johnny saw the other riflemen take their eyes from him to watch the struggle with amusement. Johnny ran to the steps and with his long legs, took them three at a time. He heard his dig crew following close behind.

Johnny met Blott's eyes, who actually sneered at him, no doubt confident his own crew could take care of these unarmed men. Dalan had ahold of Memluk's rifle. The two struggled in vain to wrest it from the other.

Blott's men were unprepared to fire their rifles, especially at such short range. In a panic, they raised them, pointing in the general direction of Johnny. Only two actually fired, shooting wildly and missing the mark wildly, as each of the remaining three realized that he didn't have a bullet in the chamber of his Enfield rifle.

Blott's face went blank as he watched the ineptitude of the men he had hired. He turned and ran. Johnny was at the top now. Dalan still struggled with Memluk.

Johnny reached them quickly and with a few well-aimed strikes with his fists, had Memluk unconscious on the ground. The dozen men behind Johnny swarmed past him towards the other riflemen who, in a panic, were having trouble cocking the bolts on their rifles. Blott must have simply hired the first six men he came across, as these men were not trained killers. They turned and fled with Johnny's men in hot pursuit.

Dalan looked up at Johnny. "I am sorry, sir," he said, then folded in on himself and sank to the ground, breathing hard.

The dig team caught three of the riflemen and beat them quite liberally before Johnny could stop them. The remaining two riflemen and Blott were gone, driving off in Blott's FWD truck. Johnny watched it go. He knew he could catch up with it and had confidence he could retrieve the helmet without too much difficulty. With a wistful sigh he turned back to Dalan.

"Where's your wife?" said Johnny.

The man looked up confused.

"Get up, let's make sure she's safe."

Relief and hope played across Dalan's face, marred by doubt, as though wondering what angle Johnny was playing. Johnny lost his patience and hauled the man up, pushing him towards the vehicles. He called to his workers and four jumped into the open bed of one of the small stout trucks. Johnny had to practically pick up Dalan to get him into the passenger seat. Johnny knew the man wasn't trying to be a nuisance, he was just in shock. He also didn't appear to be the bravest of souls. Swinging into the driver's seat, Johnny got them rolling.

Johnny repeated his question. "Where's your wife?"

Dalan lived several miles away. The house was sandwiched in the middle of a row of the same, each wall shared by the house on either side. The stifling mugginess of afternoon was settling in on the town of Kumkale. Johnny and four of his men stood with Dalan down the street from the government man's house. His men discussed the situation amongst themselves while Dalan just looked on, stricken. Johnny put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, as he scanned the street and buildings. As with many streets in the town, it was narrow and fairly busy. There were a few neighborhood merchants with shops along the street.

"How well do you know your neighbors?"

Dalan looked up at him. After a brief discussion, with Johnny cutting through his men's dialogue and giving orders, the group split up. Dalan and two of Johnny's men went with Johnny, while the other two men slowly sauntered down the street towards Dalan's house, as though they belonged in this neighborhood. Johnny's group walked along the street on the same side as Dalan's house, so they couldn't be seen from the building. That didn't mean there wasn't someone on the semi-crowded street keeping an eye out, but Johnny suspected that the guards would be lax, if Blott's other hired men were any indication. He also didn't believe that they would be expecting a rescue mission, they were simply waiting for word from Blott as to whether to kill the wife, and as Johnny learned, three children. Johnny just hoped he wasn't too late and that the family was still alive. He didn't mention this to Dalan, but he doubted that he needed to.

Dalan knocked on the door of a house two down from his own. No one answered. Dalan knocked again.

"Step aside," said Johnny.

Dalan looked confused, but moved out of the way. Johnny tried the door, but it was locked. Taking a step back he kicked the door with the bottom of his foot near the lock. The door groaned and there was a loud splintering sound. It wasn't open yet, though, so Johnny applied his foot again. The door swung in hard. Johnny entered quickly, but he could hardly see after the bright afternoon sun outside. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to see the woman standing at the end of the hallway pointing a rifle at him.

"Get out! Get out of my house!" She raised the rifle to her shoulder and aimed it right at Johnny with much more surety than any of Blott's men had shown.

Johnny started to speak to her in Turkish, but Dalan pushed past him, holding up his hands. "Adile, it's me. I need your help. Some horrible men are in my house, threatening my family. This man is here to help them."

Adile looked rather dubious about this statement as her eyes went over Johnny's incredibly tall and lean structure and then over his two diggers, dirty with the morning's work.

"Please, Adile. We need to get to your roof."

She didn't look happy about it, but she lowered her rifle. "You're paying for my door."

"Indubitably," said Johnny.

Adile looked at him with even more suspicion, but let him pass. The men bounded up the stairs. The thin house was three stories and then the steps up to the roof, shut off from the rest of the house by a trap door. Johnny pushed the trap door up. Thankfully it wasn't locked and wouldn't require further payment to Adile. The door was on hinges, and swung back fairly easily. He grabbed the side, so it wouldn't thud against the roof, and lowered it to the tar roof. As he stepped from the opening he was glad to see that only flimsy wood trellises divided this roof from the next. Making some quick motions with his hands, his men joined him in carefully, so as not to irritate Adile, and quietly removing a section of the trellis. There was a low wall that encircled the roof. Stepping over this, they advanced. There was no trellis between this roof and Dalan's roof, just a metal cable hung between two poles at the front and back of the buildings. Clothes and sheets hung from the line. Johnny crouched and moved crablike up to the clothesline. He would have towered over the top of the line if he had remained standing. He didn't know if there was someone on the other side, but best to be safe. Blott's men might not be complete morons. Slowly, he eased the corner of a sheet back and peered through the opening. There was a man sitting up against the low wall taking a nap, a rifle loose in his hands, resting on his lap. This would be easy.

"What are you doing up here?" yelled a man in Turkish.

Johnny hadn't heard the trapdoor open on the roof behind him. An older man was standing in the opening. He continued to yell at them, adding obscenities. Johnny peered back through the sheet opening and saw the guard on Dalan's roof stir, grabbing the rifle and looking around semi-alertly from his nap. Johnny grabbed either side of the sheet in front of him and then leaped onto Dalan's roof, visualizing where he had seen the guard sitting against the wall as he now couldn't see him with the sheet in front of his face. The sheet tugged against his hands, but pulled away from the cable and Johnny came down on the location where he'd last seen the man. He managed to cover half the guard with the sheet, who was kicking away from the ghostly image of Johnny descending upon him with the sheet. It wasn't how Johnny envisioned it, he had hoped to completely cover the guard, but the man was so unprepared that it didn't matter. Johnny scrambled over the top of the guard, who was yelling by this time, but who was unable to move his rifle, as it and his hands were caught beneath the sheet. Johnny hit him hard twice in the face before he fell back unconscious, blood streaming from his freshly broken nose.

Johnny held a hand up to stop anyone else from coming onto the roof. He could see the man from next door still standing half in and out of the trapdoor on his roof, dumbfounded by the sudden violence. Maybe he realized he shouldn't anger the tall skinny man. Dalan went over to the older man and spoke to him in hushed tones. Johnny eased over to the trapdoor on Dalan's roof, putting his full weight on it, so no one could come up from below, and pressed his ear to it. Were the other guards in a place where they could hear the brief sounds on the roof? He didn't hear anything through the trapdoor. Of course, that didn't mean there weren't twelve armed men on the other side just waiting for him to open it. Johnny motioned for his men to advance quietly. He took a pistol from one of them, and motioned for his man to grab the guard's rifle. Johnny slowly eased off the trapdoor. He pointed the pistol towards it as he slowly raised it. Johnny braced for gunfire, but nothing happened. He got it open far enough to peer inside. It was dark, due to the bright afternoon sunlight, but he didn't see anyone. He opened the trapdoor farther and one of his men took it and eased it to the roof. Johnny entered Dalan's house. As best he could with his height he crouched as he entered to keep the gun in front of him. Then he stopped, listening to something on the street. He realized he'd heard the yelling for several moments before it entered his consciousness. A man was yelling someone's name over and over as he came down the street, apparently running.

Johnny looked up at his man with the rifle. "See what's going on."

The man slipped quietly to the front of the roof, crouched low. He eased his head over the top to look down, then his head whipped around. "He just ran up to the door below."

At that same moment Johnny heard, and thought he felt through the roof, someone banging hard on the door. It was the messenger from Blott that Johnny feared. Casting away caution, Johnny plunged down the steps into Dalan's house, followed closely by his two men.

Inside the house, Johnny heard the banging at the front door more clearly. He heard an answer from down below as someone yelled back at the man banging on the door. The banging ended abruptly. Johnny stopped briefly on the third floor of the house and gave curt orders for his men to search the floor. It wouldn't do to have gunmen hidden away somewhere behind them. He had to make sure each floor was clear. As they cautiously began the search of the floor, Johnny lay down on the floor at the top of the stairs and began to snake himself down, so that he could see what was below. All he saw was an empty hallway. He coiled around and got to his feet. He was afraid of moving too slowly. He hadn't heard the messenger say anything about Dalan's wife and kids, but he didn't want to be seconds too late in saving them. Then all hell broke loose downstairs. Guns erupted and men yelled. At least one screamed in agony. Johnny plunged down the rest of the stairs, leaping down the last six or seven. There were three doors on this floor. Johnny couldn't wait for a guard to show himself. The man might have orders to kill the family if something like this happened. What Johnny imagined was happening downstairs was that his two men stationed outside had run up behind the messenger and barrelled into the house behind him when the door was opened.

Johnny went to the closest door and tried the knob and it turned in his hand. He was about to open the door when he heard a sharp low whistle above him. He turned his head and saw Dalan halfway down the steps. He was motioning furiously at the door down the hallway. Johnny nodded and in just three of his long steps, he was at the end of the hallway. He thought about listening at the door, but with the riotous commotion downstairs, sounding more like a pitched battle between hundreds of men rather than just a half dozen, he knew he wouldn't hear anything. He tried the knob, but it was locked. Then a woman screamed from inside the room. In near panic, Johnny stepped back and kicked the door in. With the extra adrenalin, the door splintered completely off its frame, landing on the floor. In a flash he saw a woman lying across three small children, trying to shield them from the one gunman who had a pistol pointed at them. The gun went off in the man's hand and Dalan's wife screamed again. Johnny bellowed something, he had no idea what, and emptied four rounds at the man. The gunman was already half turned towards the door, but Johnny fired before the gunman could fully turn.

Dalan shoved Johnny out of the way and scrambled across the floor to his family. Johnny kept his gun on the guard, who was doing his own screaming now, his gun now on the floor. Johnny had put at least three slugs into the man's forearm that was holding the gun.

Johnny began to enter the room, but heard men coming down the stairs. He spun, but it was his own men. Johnny pointed downstairs, and they nodded, proceeding more cautiously into the maelstrom of the first floor. Johnny reminded himself to pay his men handsomely for the bravery they had shown. Johnny turned back in time to see Dalan pointing his gun at the guard. Before Johnny could say anything, let alone stop him, he emptied the gun into the guard who had been pleading for his life. Johnny came into the room.

"Is your family okay?"

Dalan was crying as he turned towards Johnny. "He has killed my wife."

"Dear God," whispered Johnny, feeling his insides turn cold. He went to Dalan's wife and knealt beside her, turning her slowly to release the three small children trapped, but protected, beneath her. They cried and clung to their mother. Johnny didn't see any blood on her torso, then he saw it, oozing down from her hairline. But something was wrong. At this close of range with the caliber of gun used, her head wouldn't be so … intact. Johnny pushed her hair out of the way, using his sharp elbows to keep the kids from hugging her head. He found the wound. While there was a lot of blood, he could see it was not an entry wound. With a sigh of relief, he bowed his head, thankful for the miracle. He pressed his fingers against her neck and found a pulse.

"She's alive," he said.

Dalan had knelt beside Johnny and now he looked at him in shock. Johnny nodded. "She'll be fine, except for an amazingly bad headache. The bullet grazed her skull. Get a wet towel and press it to her wound until we can get her to a doctor."

Dalan jumped to his feet and disappeared out the room. Johnny shoved himself to his feet, telling the children to be careful with her head, and he left the room as well and went to the stairs. It had gotten quiet below. He called down the stairs, but there was no reply. Gripping the gun more tightly, knowing he only had two bullets left, he started down the steps, but then one of his men peeked around the corner below and smiled up at him, waving.


	4. A Myrmidon Remembers

Chapter 4 - **A Myrmidon Remembers**

He wasn't cold, despite the light snow falling on Manhattan. As he did most days, he walked the streets. It gave him something to do. Everyone else on 77th Street were bundled against the cold. He wore a threadbare cotton shirt and slacks that had once been navy blue, but were almost black with grime. He had worked in the past, usually something requiring labor. Hard work. But for about a month now he'd been antsy. Something was happening. Something big.

We walked along Riverside for several blocks, turning east onto 77th Street. This was his neighborhood, though he knew that wasn't the right word. It was where he slept in alleys and ate at the soup kitchens, as close to a neighborhood as he would probably ever have. He didn't want to, he was too high strung at the moment, but he decided nourishment would be the best course. What he really wanted to do was find answers. He hoped, he prayed to the Gods, that whatever was coming would give him those answers. Surely he had suffered enough in Their Eyes. The familiar anger grew in him as it did when his thoughts turned towards his amnesia. He had no idea who he was. He couldn't remember where he had come from. He barely knew where he was. But he had learned about this location as he frequented the soup kitchens. He was here, in New York. That's all he knew. But he didn't know how he came to be here. He had no memory of traveling to this vast city, with its unthinkable number of people. He hoped that whatever was coming could at least bring with it memories of these most basic facts of his life.

Reluctantly he entered the soup kitchen he most often visited. The smell of boiling cabbage and meat made his stomach clench. He had picked this soup kitchen because it was the closest to the museum. He couldn't stand to be too far from it and the shining bronze breastplate with the simple placard: Greek armor, circa 1,000 BC.

He ate alone, in a corner of the harshly lit dining area. He ignored the glances from the other diners. He was used to it. But invariably, every couple of weeks a volunteer at the kitchen would approach him.

"Hello there, handsome," said a tall woman whose skin rivaled the lustrous beauty of the Greek breastplate in the museum up the street. "You must be freezing. Let me go in the back and see if we have a coat you can have."

He openly stared at her face. He had only noticed her remarkable skin at first, but her face could be favorably compared to that of Helen of Sparta, daughter of Zeus and Leda. But then a jolt went through his body unrelated to the beautiful woman in front of him.

Concern crossed her face. "Are you okay?"

He arched his back against the feeling of electricity coursing through him, and a sudden awakening. Knowledge flooded his mind. It was happening. Now. The wait was finally over.

"Myrmidon," he said, almost shouted. He remembered! He smiled at the woman as he relaxed back into a sitting position. She still looked concerned. The energy filled him. Invigorated him. He was whole again. He stood up quickly, knocking the small table over, breaking and scattering the bowl, plate, and glass he had been using. He looked at it a moment, but there were far more important things to do.

He smiled at the woman again and then hurried past her and out the door. The snow had picked up as had the wind. He ran down the street towards the museum, which was several city blocks away across from the giant park. He heard footfalls behind him, someone keeping pace with him. Glancing back he saw it was the beautiful woman from the soup kitchen. What was she doing? Did she really think he needed a coat this badly?

He didn't care why she was back there, what he wanted was in front of him. Like a beacon it drew him closer. The museum was a huge gray-stone structure, he didn't know of what type of stone, but with its massive columns guarding the front door, it reminded him of Grecian and Roman buildings. He ran up the steps, hardly winded by the run, avoiding collisions with people leaving the large front doors. As he entered the building, he saw that people leaving the building looked anxious, casting glances behind them as they hurried, not quite running, towards the exit. In fact, so many were leaving that a large pool of them had formed outside the velvet ropes that denoted the entrance and the exit. There were so many people that the entrance was blocked as well as the exit. But he didn't slow down, he plowed into them as a ship heaving against the tide. People around him squawked in surprise, but he didn't slow down, pushing when he had to. Someone was yelling at him from behind, but not the woman who had followed him. It was a man's voice telling him he needed a ticket. He ignored him and continued his inexorable slog through the mass of humanity.

Then he heard the same man's voice yell, "Lady, you can't just come in here. Geez, people, you have to buy tickets!"

He didn't glance behind him, knowing it was the beautiful bronze woman from the kitchen. Unlike earlier, he felt a bit of concern and suspicion. It was one thing to follow him outside the kitchen, but to follow him all this way and then wade through this ocean of people made it hard to believe that she was concerned about his lack of coat or simply angry about knocking over a table.

But then he was through the worst of it. He slowed to a fast walk, not wishing to draw any further attention to himself. As he wove his way through the museum he realized he was still walking against the mass exodus of people, all of whom seemed frightened. This did not surprise him. Nor did the sight of a man in full Grecian armor made of shimmering bronze standing in the middle of a large room with placards stating this was the hall of ancient civilizations.

He was not the first to arrive. There were nearly 20 other Myrmidon in the room kneeling before the man in battle armor. He joined his brethren, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

"Lord Achilles," he said, letting the energy of the armor fill him and wash over him.

"Holy Toledo," said the woman from the soup kitchen. He did not turn to look as Achilles had not given him his consent to do so.

"Huh," said Achilles in a voice that didn't sound like the one he remembered. This voice was reedy. "I assumed I would run afoul of Savage, but did not think it would happen so soon. Or are you here by yourself, my dear? How unfortunate for you. Myrmidon."

He looked up, along with his brethren. His lord pointed. He was shorter than he remembered. "Capture that woman."

He and his brethren stood and turned. The beautiful woman's face looked startled and she began to back out of the large room while she dug into her handbag.


	5. Ham and Monk on the Scene

Chapter 5 - **Monk and Ham on the Scene**

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yeah, I'm sure this is the right place."

"Because you've been known to get directions wrong."

"It's the right place."

"Maybe she said something that sounds like 'soup kitchen.'"

"Like what? Nothing sounds like 'soup kitchen.'"

Ham paused, tapping the silver head of his black walking stick lightly against his lips. "You have me there. But for all I know, she said Carnegie Hall, and all you could think of was food."

Monk looked around the dining area. "Come on, maybe she's in back."

As they headed for the kitchen area an older woman, Ham thought she was about 60, came out from behind the counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen. She was staring at Monk. Did she know him?

"Oh, you poor dear. Let me get you something to eat."

Monk stopped in his tracks and Ham almost walked into his broad back. "What?" squeaked Monk in his high-pitched voice.

She looked up at Ham and smiled. "You did the right thing bringing him here. Maybe we can get him a new set of clothes, as well."

Monk looked down at his clothes. "What's wrong with 'em?"

"Thank you, ma'am," said Ham, silently thanking the gods for her. "I found him wandering the streets. Since he was obviously derelict, I thought dinner and some prayer would do him a world of good."

She put a hand on Monk's shoulder, she was an inch or two taller than him, about five-five. "You thought correctly," she said. Then she whispered, as though Monk being right next to her couldn't hear. "I suspect he might also be mentally-you know."

"Screwy?"

"Well, I'm sure I wouldn't use that word."

"Hey!" yelled Monk, brushing off her hand and stepping back from both of them. Ham would have given a million dollars for a movie camera at that moment. Two million. Monk's grizzled face was apoplectic with shock and anger, his grizzled brows doing a bizarre dance above his small eyes.

"I was thinking he might be a runaway from the circus," said Ham, nodding solemnly. "You know, the missing link, or some such."

Monk held up his hand, index finger and thumb pressed together tightly. "I'm this close to knocking your head into next week."

Ham stepped back from him with mock surprise on his face. "Say, I think he might be violent. Perhaps the police should be called."

She had been staring at Monk intently, but she turned back to Ham, fear playing across her handsomely lined face. "Oh, do you think so? He does look like he's been in a scuffle or two."

"Forget you both," said Monk, stalking past them on his short bow-legs, waddling like the ape he was. "Geez, I just bought these clothes. They're classy!"

She turned and walked towards a phone. Ham stopped her before she actually did call the police. "I'm sure it'll be okay, ma'am. I'll keep an eye on him. But pardon me, is Pat Savage here? I'm an acquaintance of hers."

The woman stopped and turned. "Such a darling young woman. I'm afraid she's not. There was a gentleman here earlier who seemed quite upset about something, overturned a table over there," she said, waving vaguely towards the dining area. A couple of men and a woman looked up from their dinner. "He stormed out of here and Patricia followed after him. She can be rather-spontaneous. I've talked to her about that."

He looked at Monk, raising an eyebrow. Like her cousin, she could find trouble without really trying. Monk, his anger gone, said, "You sure she followed him?"

She paused a moment, as though thinking it over. "I think so. She left right after him and when he ran down the street," she pointed down 77th Street, towards Central Park, "she started to run, I believe."

"How long ago was this?" asked Ham.

"Not very. Maybe fifteen minutes."

When Ham turned from the woman, Monk was already halfway towards the door. Ham hurried to catch up. Once outside, they ran down 77th Street. Despite his short legs, Monk was able to keep up with Ham. They did get strange looks from the people out on this cold evening. Ham wasn't surprised. He was nearly six feet tall, slender, dressed as dapper as ever in his Italian-tailored evening suit, hat, and black overcoat. Monk, on the other hand, was short, squat, and ugly. He had a brown leather jacket custom made for his thick, long arms, his hands hanging down to his bow-legged knobby knees. His body was incredibly wide for as short as he was. He outweighed Ham by nearly a hundred pounds, though, Ham hated to admit, he wasn't fat by any means. He had a gray wool hat, which he had pulled down low over his nearly non-existent forehead, covering his red hair, which was as hard and wiry as pig bristles. His ugly mug was awash in scars. Ham had no doubt that many of the people watching them wondered why that gorilla was chasing that handsome man.

"I'm sure she's fine," said Monk, not breathing hard yet, despite the two of them running flat out for a block so far.

Ham nodded. "We'll find her in Central Park giving bread to the pigeons." He knew that Monk was as worried as he was. And he knew they'd be lucky if there were only pigeons involved.

Then they heard a siren. A moment later a police car screamed past them. Despite how fast they were already running, they managed to run a little faster.

They slid to a stop in the snow that was beginning to stick to the sidewalks. They were at the intersection with Central Park West. A half block north were three police cars parked in front of the American Museum of Natural History. A crowd of people had formed in the middle of the street, blocking traffic.

"Any chance Pat's not in the middle of that?" said Ham.

"Nope."

More police cars were trying to get to the scene through the large group of people in the street. The cops that were already there guided people from the museum while also trying to keep gawkers from getting closer. It was chaotic to say the least and Ham and Monk found it easy to enter the museum.

Museum guards were inside the door ushering people towards the clogged-up exit. Beyond them, however, the museum seemed deserted. Pushing through the people, Ham went to a guard on the periphery. "What's going on?"

The guard looked him over cautiously, then frowned at Monk standing next to him.

"It's okay," said Ham, "I'm with the city and this is my trained monkey."

The guard looked incredulously at Monk.

"Answer the question," said Monk.

"Jeepers," said another guard, disentangling himself from the clog of people and approaching them. "They're with Doc Savage's group."

Ham saw the idol worship in the man's face, so he played into it. "That's right. We're in a jam and we really need your help. We believe an associate of ours is still inside the museum. What's going on in there?"

Another guard broke off from the crowd and joined them, jumping into the conversation. "I saw it. There's some nutty guy in there dressed in armor giving orders to-I don't know, they look like bums. But them guys is listening to the kook in armor. Doing what he says."

Ham nodded. "And did you see a woman with them? Beautiful. Tall."

Another guard piped in. They were getting nearly as large a group as the remaining patrons who were trying to leave the museum.

"I saw her. Wow, what a looker. Right out of the movies, I tell you. She was down near all those guys, but I don't know what happened to her."

Ham and Monk heard Pat's six-shooter revolver go off somewhere in the museum, they'd recognize that sound anywhere. As the guards turned to see what was happening, Monk shoved his way through them with Ham right on his heels. Ham looked back. "Which way?" With the echoes following the initial reports, three shots had been fired, there was no telling where she was.

One of the guards broke off from the group and followed. "Keep going straight. We got to get to the Hall of Ancient Civilizations."

Monk stopped long enough to turn to the guard. "I know where that is. You stay here, bub, no reason to get hurt. Here," Monk pulled out his wallet and dug out a bronze business card with only a phone number on it. "Call this number. Now remember this, tell them that Pat's in trouble at the museum here. Got it? And tell them that Monk and Ham told you to call."

The guard looked in awe at the card in his hands. "Is this Mr. Savage's number?"

Ham put the silver head of his walking stick under the man's chin, none too gently. Shutting the man's gaping mouth with a clack of teeth. He wanted to make sure that he had the man's full attention. "Call the number. Tell them what this talking ape told you to say. Got it?"

The man looked scared, but nodded as best he could with the walking stick pushing his head back. Ham removed the stick from under the man's chin and he and Monk took off into the museum.


	6. Doc Investigates

Chapter 6 - **Doc Investigates**

Doc Savage stopped his black sedan near one of six police cars parked outside the American Museum of Natural History. He, Renny, and Long Tom got out of the car, each looking around for any sign of their colleagues. Doc felt the slight tingle of worry that he allowed himself to feel. He knew all three could take care of themselves, but the situations they inevitably found themselves in were anything but normal, and he knew there would come a time when they would face something beyond their means. Or worse, beyond his means to save them.

There were seven officers out front, wearing their heavy blue wool overcoats against the snow. Other than the police and a few people walking along the sidewalk of Central Park West, there wasn't anyone else. Doc assumed the rest of the officers were inside with the museum officials and guards. Doc and his men walked past the officers outside, they would not have the latest information. Those he passed nodded to him, he returned the acknowledgement.

Entering the foyer of the museum he approached a group of men, several uniformed police officers and men in suits. By the nature of the suits, Doc saw that two of them were detectives while the other three most likely worked for the museum. There were also two women dressed in business attire. One of the uniformed officers spotted his approach and he stiffened. This drew the attention of the others, their eyes turning to the officer and then turning in the direction he was looking. The police did a passable job of hiding their surprise at seeing Doc, the men and women from the museum gaped at him. He was used to this reaction and ignored it, focusing on the two detectives.

"Dr. Savage," said Detective Taylor. Doc had run across the man a few times over the years.

"Detective Taylor," said Doc, nodding slightly. "I'm sorry to interrupt your meeting."

Taylor shook his head. "Not a problem. As I understand, two of your men were already in here."

"'Were?'"

Taylor raised his eyebrows. "Ah, you haven't heard from them, then. Unfortunately, I haven't seen them and the museum appears to be empty."

"The man in armor is gone?"

The detective nodded. "Once we cleared the patrons out, we performed a preliminary sweep. The museum's huge, of course, so once we get more men here we plan to go through it all again."

"But you're not expecting to find anything."

The two detectives looked at each other, Doc didn't know the other one. Taylor said, "Yeah, I'm thinking they got out of here during the chaos. According to witnesses, the nut broke the display case for-" Taylor looked at a man in a brown business suit.

He looked startled. "Hmmm? Oh, so sorry. Yes, a Grecian cuirass, circa 1000 BC."

"Yeah, that thing," said Taylor. "He took the whatever from the case and put it on. I guess he had the other armor already with him. But the nutty thing is, after he put this stuff on, he stood there. Didn't do anything. A few guards found out and came to see what was going on, but I guess the guy just smiled at them. He didn't say anything."

"He must have done something," said Renny in his rumbling voice, "or you guys wouldn't be here."

"And our friends wouldn't be missing," said Long Tom.

"Well, he never really did anything. It was the other guys. Like I said, the first one, the guy wearing the armor, kinda stood there. The guards talked to him, tried to get him to take the armor off. While they were doing this, another man approached them. I guess this guy looked a little out of place in the museum. The guards said he was wearing really dirty old clothes. Like he was a bum come right off the streets. He comes up to the guy in armor and, well, he kneels before him. Actually gets down on his knees. Well, the guy in armor starts to grin like an idiot. Then he, the guy in armor, tells the bum to knock out the guards. The guards say the guy didn't hesitate for even a second. As soon as the armor guy finished speaking, he was on them and before they knew what had happened, they were out cold. Thankfully, they're both okay. The museum folks here had them taken to the hospital."

"Can I see where this all happened?" asked Doc. Had this been a robbery or something more? The story about the bum had him concerned.

Taylor looked over at a group of museum guards who had clustered together. One of them broke off from the group and approached.

"Sir?"

"You were the one that talked to Dr. Savage's men, correct?"

The guard nodded, briefly rubbing under his chin. Doc noticed the unconscious movement, knowing it probably meant that Monk or Ham had been physical with the man, perhaps to better focus his attention.

"Can you take Dr. Savage to the hall of whatsit where this happened?"

"Oh, sure can. Follow me."

The Hall of Ancient Civilizations was a cavernous room filled with the relics of bygone ages. At a glance, Doc saw armor, weapons, clothes, furniture, and tools from Europe, Asia, the Middle East, and some south Pacific islands and territories. In one area, a platoon of armor stood at attention. A glass case at the edge of the platoon, which marked the earliest of the armor, was in shards on the floor. Doc approached slowly while Renny and Long Tom moved off to either side of him.

"How many other men showed up?" asked Doc.

"You mean like that first bum? About 20."

"And they all kneeled before the man in armor?"

"I heard that they did. I didn't actually see them or anything."

Doc read the museum's description of the piece that was stolen. A breastplate from Greece nearly 3000 years old. Nothing else in the area seemed to have been touched. Why only take this one piece? He already had armor with him. Perhaps he was finishing off his collection. It would be easy to write this off as just some disturbed individual except that roughly 20 men came to him. Kneeled before him. And in all likelihood, abducted Pat, Monk, and Ham.

"Doc, over here!" bellowed Renny from across the large room, his deep voice reverberating as though in an echo chamber.

They stood in front of a glass case enclosing the silk robes of a Chinese royal. At the edge of the glass, in black grease pencil, Doc guessed an eyebrow pencil, was Pat's handwriting written in Mayan, the ancient language Doc and his men had learned quite some time ago. It read: Lightning underground cave.

Doc looked up at the museum guard. "Is there an access near here that leads to the underground electrical conduit that feeds the museum?"

Long Tom began to walk along the closest wall the moment he'd read the message. Renny went in the opposite direction, looking along its base.

The guard shook his head. "Sorry. I don't even know if there is one."

Long Tom said, "There's a network of conduits beneath the ground as part of the subway system that carries electrical and telephone lines. For all we know, the one under here could be an active section of the subway itself, but I don't think it is, if I recall correctly."

"Here," said Renny, shoving away from the wall a mannequin dressed in a kimono.

As Doc approached, he saw that the screws securing the metal panel to the wall were gone. Doc moved the metal panel out of the way, revealing a black hole behind it. He pulled out a small flashlight from one of the many pockets on his vest and played it into the cavity in the wall. There was a metal cylinder going down about ten feet. Metal rungs were welded into the side, which ended at a metal door in the "floor" of the cylinder. A padlock used to keep the door locked, but it had been sawed through with a hacksaw. Doc lowered himself down the cylinder, which was a tight fit for his large frame. At the bottom, he turned off his flashlight and managed to squat enough on the last rung to reach between his legs and pull the door up. He stayed there, frozen, listening with his acute hearing. He couldn't detect any movement or breathing. There was no way for him to twist around to look through the opening, so with no other option, he turned his flashlight back on. It was a concrete pipe, four feet wide, running perpendicular to the metal access cylinder. Along the bottom of the pipe were several bundles of wire. Doc stood a little straighter and then let himself fall through the door into the concrete pipe. He quickly shown the flashlight in each direction. The concrete pipe was empty. He whistled sharply through the opening, informing Long Tom and Renny to follow him. As they clambered down, Doc moved away from the bottom of the cylinder, but looked intently at the wall of the pipe for any markings indicating which way to proceed.

When Long Tom lowered himself into the pipe, he said, "Find anything, Doc?"

"Scuff marks from a lot of shoes go off in this direction." He shone his light in one direction, but then he pivoted it around. "But we're going this way." He pointed. There were spots of blood on the concrete pipe that disappeared into the darkness.


End file.
